


Courtship and the Ice Man

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:43:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4199592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time I decided to let poor Mycroft attempt being the assertive initiator. He kind of muddled it up, but in the end it's all good.</p><p>Have fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courtship and the Ice Man

Mycroft Holmes was many things: brilliant, commanding, authoritarian. Canny and clever. Assertive in his professional arena, if modest and retreating socially. He was more intuitive and sensitive than his raucous crow of a brother, if also less able to hold tight to the relationships his sensitivity and intuition might have otherwise won him. He had complex ideas about himself, both good and vile, and in response to his own beliefs, he lived a life intended to make the best he could of his virtues, while either evading his flaws, or attempting to parley them into advantages.

As a result he was meticulous, organized, and terrifyingly thorough in all aspects of his work…the work of protecting England. He was also shy and retiring, covering his insecurity with brusque professionalism and biting wit…which served quite well in that, having played the curmudgeon to a brilliant standard, he was quite alone, barring family…and, being Mycroft Holmes, he could not bring himself to ever quite flee from family entirely. This was a problem, of course. It entailed ongoing difficulties with his younger brother. It meant unexpected trips up to his parents’ cottage, and far too expected bouts of taking his parents around town to meet, greet, watch a few shows, and gossip with their little social circle. Worst of all, it meant dealing with Mummy and Father’s concerns for him.

“Have you met any nice young men?” Mummy asked, when she came down to attend a convention on folk dance.

“Mummy, that’s hardly your business,” Mycroft murmured. It was bad enough Sherlock had outed him. It was bad enough Mummy and Father had accepted, after years of struggle, only to start panting for the same sort of news about nice young men they’d once hoped would come by way of a nice young woman. But of late they’d both become a bit harried in their curiosity. “Some things are private,” Mycroft remonstrated. He knew his ears and nose had turned pink—and it was all he could do not to glance around the tea room Mummy had chosen for lunch, hoping no one had overheard.

“Mycroft, I’m sure you’d rather it were not so—but a child’s love life is very much a parent’s concern,” Mummy snapped. “Stop adding sugar to my tea. It’s just your nerves, and I don’t want to drink syrup. Mikey, your father and I are not getting any younger. It’s not unreasonable of us to hope to see you happily settled. Perhaps even that you’ll present us with a grandchild or two when we’re still young enough to offer to babysit.”

“Mother…” He squirmed, feeling the dainty chair flex under him. “Really…”

“No,” she snapped. “Don’t dodge, Mike. I don’t want to die knowing you’re alone and sad.” Her voice quavered. “And Mikey, it’s not like I expect Our Sherlock to provide. Father and I have resigned ourselves to accepting those Watsons as Sherlock’s contribution to our family. Which is quite lovely, and the baby is darling, but…it’s honestly only slightly better than when he told us he’d marry Redbeard.”

“That was some time ago,” Mycroft pointed out. “It hasn’t occurred to you his preferences might have altered for the better?” Not that he was going to go so far out on a limb as to suggest Sherlock was likely to enter into connubial bliss with anyone, much less provide grandchildren for Mummy and Father to jog on their knees… And if he did, well… Mycroft shivered, going over the list of people Sherlock might present. Irene Adler figured dramatically in his imagination.

Mummy sipped her tea and grimaced, flagging down a waiter as soon as she could and asking for a fresh cup and a fresh pot of tea while he was at it. She glowered at her elder son.

He gazed back as impassively as he could manage. He found it hard to hold out against Mummy. Especially as he did feel both guilty and out of control for having put so much sugar in her cup. “Mummy,” he said, wearily, “I’m forty-four years old. Isn’t it time to accept that I’m best suited to a solitary life? It is safer for me, for the nation—and for any poor berk I might marry. It’s not kind to paint a big bullseye on one’s nearest and dearest.”

“You should have thought of that before you went into—“

“—Civil service,” Mycroft said, quickly, before she could say “espionage.” As she was far too likely to do….

She grimaced and rolled her eyes, and hummed the classic James Bond theme at him. He glowered back. Her mouth quirked, a mischievous grin blossoming. “I could just announce your status,” she said. “Loudly. Then the jig would be up and you’d have to look into other employment options. Less dangerous ones. More suited to family life.”

“Mummy…” His voice was agony.

She sighed heavily, then said, “Dear, how close an eye do you keep on your father and me?”

He raised an eyebrow and made an unhappy face. “As little as possible, actually,” he said. “In my line of work, one quickly finds out how much one really wishes one didn’t know about one’s family.”

“Mmmm. Then can I assume you’ve not got the results from Father’s latest health check-up?”

His blood ran cold. “No.”

“Mmmm. Don’t faint, Mikey. Deep breaths. That’s right. No panic attacks. But there’s a bit of a murmur, and some signs of arteriosclerosis. We’re keeping an eye on it, and thanks to you the NHS people are complete pets. But…” She looked at him seriously. “Mikey, don’t let your Father die thinking it all dead ends with you and Sherlock. Give him his posterity, love. Give me mine. We didn’t raise you two hoping you’d just throw up your hands and quit on us.”

He scowled. “Mummy…”

All right, he thought, the whine in his voice was embarrassing. He tried again. “I’m no good at this, Mummy. Why aren’t you after Sherlock? He’s younger, he’s not trapped in career obligations. People even like him these days. Sometimes, anyway.”

She looked at him soberly. “Mikey…now, dear, don’t be silly. Of the two you’re far the better choice. Sherlock is my darling boy, and I will always love him. But you are the reliable one.”

He considered pointing out, as he had in his teens, that this point could be remedied. That dream, though, had died over the years. He was the responsible one—first because Mummy and Father had expected it of him, but now and for decades before, because he demanded it of himself.

“I have no idea who I’d marry,” he said, helpless.

“Well, if you’ve no one special, pick someone sensible, and go with that,” Mummy said.

“Someone I’m not…” He froze, unable to say “not in love with.” It would require conceding he could be in love, and implying he wanted to be.

“Mikey, I don’t care, so long as you pick someone good for you. Man. Woman. Old. Young. I don’t care. But give me the hope of a future that will continue more than a few decades after your father and I die.” He eyes were panicky, suddenly. “I don’t mind dying, son. It will happen someday whatever I think. But it terrifies me to think I raised you and Sherlock so badly that neither of you can bear to play it out another generation, rather than pulling the plug on everything that came before you. And what it will do to your Father…he loved being your father, Mikey. He loved it.” She bit back sniffles.

Mycroft poured them both new tea from the hot new teapot the waiter produced. He closed his eyes as he nibbled on a delicate little English-style scone.

Mummy sipped her own tea, and piled marmalade on her own scones.

“I don’t like children,” Mycroft murmured.

She blew a delicate raspberry and scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You doted on Sherlock.”

“It was a matter of defense,” he retorted. “If you didn’t pay attention to the wretch the next thing you knew he’d ripped your favorite things to bits.”

“And you still doted on him.”

“He denies it.”

“Yes, well—Sherlock,” she said, as though it was obvious. Of course, it was obvious.

He sighed. “I don’t know anyone.”

“Don’t be silly. You know hundreds of people. Those nice young agents.”

He evil-eyeballed her. She didn’t bother to blush over her slip. “They’re supposed to be England’s finest,” she said, unrepentant. “Bright. Fit. Mostly single… And did I say fit?” She grinned a very naughty grin. “And well-tailored posteriors, the last time you took us through the office. So many nicely tailored posteriors.”

“Mummy!”

She sighed. “I don’t know how you turned out to be so stuffy, Mike. But—think about it, will you? Truly, I’d love to see your Father hold his first grandbaby.”

He mumbled and made faintly submissive noises—and saw her off in a black cab with a frantic sense of escaping Mordor and Mount Doom. Once free of his maternal antecedent, he hurried back to his offices in MI6’s headquarters on the Thames, and burrowed rapidly into his privacy, like a serpent slithering frantically into dense grass. Indeed, it would not have been entirely surprising to have found him coiled neatly out of view, nose hidden under tight loops, trying to pretend lunch had never happened.

His second, She Who Was Known as Anthea, though, was not one to miss his retreat. Of course it helped that she not only knew Mummy, but spoke to her more often than Mycroft did. At the end of the business day she came in with a pot of smoky Lapsang Souchong tea spiked with even smokier scotch, and cleared her throat meaningfully, refusing to allow Mycroft the luxury of pretending to be so deeply entrenched in computer research as to miss her presence. “Come on, gov. End of business day. Time to go home. Here—this should help a bit.” She put down the tray near Mycroft’s elbow, poured him a mug, and perched cheerfully on the end of his desk. “Have a nice cuppa, and remind yourself you only have to see her a few times a quarter.”

He gave her a bitter, self-pitying glower, but accepted the cup of tea. He drank deeply, then sighed as something seemed to seep out of him.

“Bugger,” he said.

“Mmmmm?” Her voice was too cheerful by half. He glared at her again, and she chuckled. “We all deal with it, gov. People think the biological alarm clock for kids is bad? Well it’s worse for grandkids.”

“You don’t have to put up with it.”

“Well, no. Orphan and all that. But still. It’s a cultural norm.” He continued to glare balefully, and she laughed. “Oh, come on. It’s not like she can make you.”

He huffed and looked into the dregs of his teacup. “Ah, but she can,” he said, finally. “Indeed, I’m more than a bit afraid she has.”

After which he closed his laptop, locked it in the office safe, collected his Crombie overcoat and his umbrella, and retreated to the silent precincts of the Diogenes to sulk and feel sorry for himself.

The trouble was that he understood too easily what Mummy was saying, he thought forlornly. He himself hoped that something of him would live on after him. For years he’d convinced himself that “England” was sufficient answer. England in all her beauty and splendor—in the pomp and majesty of her traditions, in the lively, stout continuing of her heritage and economy. He would die someday, but England would continue, the better for him having served his term, given his all. And, yet…

There were other forms of immortality, or even mere legacy. And there were other assurances to take with you to the grave. He thought of Sherlock and John Watson and that rogue card, Mary…of the solid affection between them. He thought of Baby Em and her gappy, gummy smile with one white tooth just bursting through, as he’d last seen her.

He thought of dying alone, with no one to regret his passing. Of being neatly cremated according to his will, paid for with funds already set aside. He’d be scattered over England from a high-flying plane, his ashes spreading far and wide on the winds. With luck he’d be sprinkled from Land’s End to John O’ Groat, from the Irish Sea to the English Channel. It would all proceed silently and without fuss, involving no one, unless those few who knew him well chose to step in and take part in duties that would otherwise be fulfilled by anonymous people in the employment of various mortuary services.

Were he a Prime Minister or even a lowly MP, his death would warrant public displays of mourning, and ringside seats for most of Britain’s upper crust. Mycroft, though, was the little man who wasn’t there—a phantom even by the standards of much of the civil service. His death would attract no brass bands, no squadrons of soldiers lined up to fire off salvos in his honor. Her Majesty might care, he supposed. Harry the Equerry might pause and lift a glass in his memory. But on the whole he would die alone, and his story would end, and if Sherlock bothered to remember him it would be a minor miracle.

As for the news of Father’s health? And the thought of Father longing for a baby to dandle on his knee?

By the end of the evening Mycroft was maudlin to a degree he found utterly appalling.

By morning he’d come up with a plan to deal with it.

He began by determining what criteria he valued in a spouse. The list was long and detailed and even he found himself quickly coming to the conclusion he was being a bit over-controlling. Still, he forged on, hacking the various dating services to get an approximate feel for the sorts of people available who met his varied expectations.

Three days into this Anthea strode into his office, came behind the desk, and looked over his shoulder into the laptop screen. She twitched visibly. “Bugger-all, gov—not one of them makes it past the uncanny valley. Do they manufacture them in sweat-shops in Pakistan?”

Mycroft grunted unwilling agreement. “No. They are all quite real. But I agree—they’re enough to give me the twitch just looking at them.”

Anthea, leaning gentle on one of his shoulders, reached out and took over his keyboard for a moment, pulling up the specifics on a stunning blond with American teeth—straight, gleaming white, and square. She frowned and murmured under her breath.

“Cambridge, Corpus Christie, first in Maths, vice president of Miffling and Staunton, second house in the Bahamas…Good credit rating. Likes opera, polo, and death metal concerts. Personal statement…oh, God. Blah-blah-blah.” She pulled up another, this a pretty young woman of Asian heritage and sleek lines. “Oxford, Balliol, firsts in Philosophy and Physics…currently working at the University of Geneva, Physics research… Um. My. Her ‘likes’ are rather specific.”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t measure up,” Mycroft said, wryly. “Not even with those amazing penile enlargement things that keep showing up in my spam.”

The truth was, the more specific he’d been in his own wish-list, the creepier the final sorts had seemed to become. Having fussed over every detail, he’d ended up with screen after screen filled with strange, plastic personalities, with beautiful faces and still more beautiful CVs, but the oddest overall sense of being alien.

And not in a good way. Not a cheerful madman in a blue box. No. These were the sort who one suspected wore stolen human skins and breathed methane and ate your eyeballs out when they were done playing with you. They made Mycroft shiver—and Mycroft had faced down people whose life experience included actions so vile they startled the guys who tracked down war criminals.

Anthea wrinkled her nose, still leaning softly against her superior. “Boss—you’ve got to find another answer. These are horrible. Isn’t there anyone you’d like to know better—in the long term sense?”

He sighed and looked wistfully at the screen, chin in his hands. He shook his head. “No. Not really. Unless--“ he glanced over at her, hovering so nearby. “I don’t suppose you…”

She laughed and dropped an entirely too informal kiss on his head, smoothing his thinning hair. “No, guv. Afraid not. You’re a complete pet, but—under other circumstances marrying a gay man who treats me like his kid sister might be a good choice. But I don’t need that. Not in this day and age. Maybe if you looked for someone who’d had a harder ride?”

“That sounds filthy,” Mycroft objected. “And dangerous. Next you’ll be advising me to pursue someone like Sherlock: needy, vain, chemically scarred, and mentally peculiar. The sort of person who needs a marital caretaker.”

Anthea shuddered. “God forbid. The two of you are already too codependent for words. Add in a Sherlock clone as your main squeeze? Ick.”

“We are not codependent,” Mycroft snapped.

She gave him a long, disbelieving look.

He sighed heavily. “Very well. Perhaps somewhat.”

“Mmmm. More than somewhat,” she corrected, and looked gloomily back down at his laptop screen. “There must be other people. People you know. Humans, not silicone creeps.”

“Do be realistic, my dear. I’ve spent my adult years avoiding knowing anyone—the more human the more I’ve avoided it.”

“No. You avoid socializing with real people—but you know plenty. For all your efforts, this is not a job that lets you avoid people all that well, gov. Hang on—“ She reached down and began racing through his desktop display, shouting “ah-hah” after a few seconds. “Your contact files. That’s where you start.” She started flipping through, muttering. “Lady Smallwood. She’s a widow now.”

“I’m gay, Anthea.”

“Yeah, and I looked at that screen, you big goof. You’re willing to consider anyone who might qualify to build a family. And Lady S. was a good wife—a real good wife. She’d be good for you.”

He shivered. “No. She terrifies me. All that blonde hair and poise. Marvelous to work with. But…” He winced, thinking of coming home to a woman he considered very close to a peer, in all the scariest ways. “No,” he said again.

“Mmmm,” she said, and started flipping around some more, spooling up and down the lists.

“No,” he said again.

She stopped, and considered him. “If I don’t, you have to promise you will.”

“Anthea…”

“You don’t want your poor mother to be sad, do you?” she wheedled. He hissed at her, delicate and evil, eyes narrowed. She chuckled. “And your Father…he’d so like to have a grandchild…”

“You’re begging for a demotion.”

“No. I’m begging for a happy boss,” she said, more gently. “Come on, gov. Promise you’ll go through the lists. Here….” She flicked quickly, and grunted in satisfaction. “Thought so. Figured you’d have the vital stats. Here—all the singletons, with an extra sort on known and suspected orientation. Come on, boss—one of them has to be worth considering. Promise.”

He huffed, and rolled his eyes, and squiched his mouth in a puckered sulk—then gave in.  “Fine. Very well. I’ll look them over. But I don’t expect to find anyone.”

She smiled like sun coming up in springtime. She leaned over and kissed the deep harbor where his hair was rapidly receding over his temple. “There’s a good gov,” she said, softly. “You do that. See you in the morning.”

And then she was gone, leaving him to brood over her list and the last of the Lapsang Souchong and whiskey.

He didn’t expect to find anyone—he really didn’t. But as he scrolled up and down the list, names jumped at him, male and female, each offering unique qualities and potential. There was Jane Arkwright, who’d done field work with him back in the day. She was long in the tooth, but he trusted her profoundly, and she’d gently initiated him in what little he knew of heterosexual action. His memories of that were tender and fond, if not precisely torrid. Then there was Iason Petrakis, a Greek interpreter for the Foreign Office…one of the few men he’d risked an affair with. They’d parted on good terms. Jade Renfrew, who kept him up to date on his hacking skills—not that he was without his own resources, but it was always good to work with someone who specialized. Tim Ferriers, specialized in weapons blackmarket…

A face flashed by, and he stopped, unable to resist flipping back.

He smiled, not entirely aware that he was doing so. One long finger went out and touched the photo that smiled out at him.

He looked warily at the notes on orientation. There were more than he had on most his contacts—but, then, he’d done a far more complete background check on Lestrade than on most his contacts. Even Mycroft Holmes didn’t obsess over the fine background details of every individual he worked with. But every individual he trusted to cope with Sherlock? Oh, yes.

So he knew—knew about the first kiss, in elementary school. The first girlfriend, in secondary school. The first boyfriend, in the years he’d worked as a roadie for a recording company. The many dates with both genders during uni. The girlfriend he’d latched onto after he began training at Hendon…the same woman he’d married. The same woman he’d divorced. He knew about modest dating since, with both men and women.

He realized with a start that he’d always found comfort in Lestrade’s bisexuality—and with the man’s own apparent comfort with it. He remembered the moment Sherlock, hoping to do his brother damage, had outed him in front of the DI…and the sense he’d had of faith rewarded when Lestrade merely snorted and asked why Sherlock was being such a pilllock. And the smile Lestrade had sent him—gentle, accepting.

He forced himself to transfer the entire list to his flash drive before putting away the laptop, clearing away the tray, and collecting his things to go home. But he knew already that, if he had to attempt a courtship, he’d as soon start with Lestrade as anyone. He could almost imagine courting Lestrade.

Almost. Not entirely, as Mycroft still felt this was a terrible idea of Mummy’s—something he would only do to satisfy his aging parents. But, still—he didn’t want to hide, or worse, vomit.

For weeks after, Mycroft considered how to approach Lestrade. Not in a panic—indeed, the more he considered Lestrade, the more calm and peaceful he felt. But he wished to do things properly, in an orderly, responsible fashion. He wasn’t a young fool, and Lestrade was even less so. They were men with public roles to play, and a certain level of comportment to maintain. Nor did he want to give a false impression: after all, he couldn’t offer love, as such. Admiration. Attraction. Respect. Commitment. But he was Mycroft Holmes, and he hadn’t fallen head over heels for Lestrade—or with anyone else since his green boyhood days.

Dates as such seemed entirely wrong for both of them. Dinners, perhaps. Shows, perhaps. But not as dates. As social events, perhaps. But even dates were not the right start. In the end he chose to approach the matter as he’d approach the more critical of professional matters.

He made an appointment to meet Lestrade at the Met. Ten AM on a Tuesday, which would spare the them both the shock of a Monday declaration, while still leaving Lestrade the entire week to consider the potential. He dressed in his most sober suit—the pinstripe he reserved for the most demanding of meetings. He picked up a flask of good coffee and a box of pastries on the way, as he’d sampled what the Met had to offer, and could only think providing better than swill would improve the overall tone of the meeting. He arrived on time, allowed himself to be ushered into the office, murmured that the door might best be closed, and took the visitor’s chair in front of Lestrade’s desk. He waited while Lestrade thanked him for the coffee and pastries, while he served himself, sampled, crooned his appreciation, then settled in his own chair, looking across the desk to Mycroft.

“So—what’s up?”

“I’ve come to see you on a personal matter,” Mycroft said, sitting quite straight, with his chin high.

“Sherlock in some kind of trouble?” Lestrade looked worried, but not frantic. But, then, that was one of the many things Mycroft liked about Lestrade—he didn’t panic. He was a solid anchor in high seas…

“No. Sherlock’s fine. No, I’m afraid it’s more of a, well…as I said. Personal. A personal matter.” He sighed, and gingerly stripped off his black gloves, folding them neatly and pushing them into his coat pocket. He considered his well-manicured nails, then said, softly. “My mother and father….” He stopped, then, feeling insecure, and suddenly out of balance. He cleared his throat. “Um….”

“Mmmm?” Lestrade looked curious and slightly amused, a twinkle in his eyes. “Your mother and father?” he prompted.

“Yes. They’re…well. They’re entering their final years. Apparently the process has triggered a certain amount of concern over things left undone or unresolved in their lives.”

“Mmmm?”

Mycroft sighed. Lestrade was hardly helping. He cleared his throat again. “They’ve come up all twitchy,” he said, uneasily. “About seeing me settled.”

Lestrade blinked—a slow-motion blink that reminded Mycroft of a stunned tortoise. He cocked his head ever so slightly. “Settled?”

“Yes.” Mycroft felt there was far too little air in the stuffy little office. This should not be so hard, he thought. He was not in love. Lestrade wasn’t. They were grown men of experience and discretion. He forced himself to take a deep, cleansing breath, and continued. “Yes. Um. Apparently they’ve given up on Sherlock, but are still hopeful of seeing me settled into a marriage before their eventual deaths.” He sighed, and added. “Mummy’s also not above hinting at a hope for grandchildren, though frankly I think she might be willing to settle for grand-puppies provided she got to see a legal wedding license.”

Lestrade blinked again, then said, warily. “Mothers can be that way. At least…so I’ve heard.”

“Mummy’s quite determined,” Mycroft said.

“A difficult social situation.”

“Quite.”

“You could just tell her no, you know.”

Mycroft winced. “I could, I suppose. It’s quite painful, and usually takes a matter of months when it’s anything she’s got her heart set on. But…I could try.” He left a silent “except” dangling at the end of the sentence, hoping Lestrade would pick up on it. He did.

“Except?”

“Except after due consideration I’ve concluded I’m not as averse to the idea as I had expected when Mummy first broached it.”

Lestrade leaned back lazily in his desk chair, raising his feet to prop on the corner of the desk. He sipped the coffee, studying Mycroft contemplatively as he did. At last he said, “So. You wouldn’t mind getting married. And?”

“And I have researched possibles—people I thought might suit.”

“Of course. Only logical.” Lestrade’s eyes glittered, but he kept his voice smooth and calm. “And?”

Mycroft met the other man’s eyes, feeling the way he’d felt the very first time he’d ridden a horse over a jump. “And after due consideration I concluded that I would very much like to explore the possibility of a relationship with you.”

There, he thought, he’d said it—and if his pulse was a bit too quick and a fine sweat slicked his brow, he’d still managed it without too much mayhem.

Lestrade sat, poised, coffee cup halfway to his lips, face suddenly still.

The silence oozed between them.

Lestrade took a cleansing breath of his own. “Ah. I see.”

“You’re not obliged,” Mycroft assured him. “If it’s not of interest I would not wish to presume.”

Lestrade blinked….again. Then he said, “We can get to that later. Right now—why? I mean—why me?”

“While you are not in my brother’s and my league in regards to intelligence, you are far from stupid. You are a very admirable shade of ethical gray—I admire the choices you’ve made when forced to compromise your ideals. You are loyal. You are capable. You get along with Sherlock, which in and of itself suggests you are a man of great patience and kindness. You are a good partner—when we’ve worked together I’ve always enjoyed the certainty of your collaboration.”

“And?” Lestrade sounded stunned, as though he’d been bludgeoned.

Mycroft considered. “You are attractive? I’m not sure you will consider that an appropriate concern on my part, but it remains true. I find you quite attractive.”

“And?”

Mycroft frowned. “Isn’t that enough to be getting on with?” he asked, unsettled. “It seemed like a reasonable starting point when I reviewed the matter.”

Lestrade shook his head in dumb amazement. “Do you even like me, Mike?”

“Mycroft.”

“And that’s another thing—I like nicknames. I’m comfortable with nicknames,” Lestrade said. “I like people who like me. And I like people who don’t mind nicknames. And---really? I mean…really?”

Mycroft shivered, suddenly aware that, calm and professional and businesslike though his presentation had been, it had somehow raised Lestrade’s ire, rather than tempting him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Apparently I’ve erred. My apologies. I’ll withdraw the suggestion and be on my way.”

He stood, groping for his umbrella—then recalled he’d left it behind to ensure his hands were free for the pastries and coffee. He instead straightened his Crombie and turned to leave.

“Whoa, wait a minute, hotshot,” Lestrade sputtered. “Not so fast.”

“What?” Mycroft frowned, and said, caught between dismay and tart annoyance, “DI Lestrade, I accept that I’ve failed in my intentions, and have offended you in the process. I apologized and offered to leave. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”

Lestrade gave him a puzzled, peculiar glance, and said, tentatively, “You really don’t get human nature, do you?”

Mycroft considered. “Nature? Yes. Human? He pondered further, and said, reluctantly, “Perhaps less than I ought. Have I got it wrong, then?”

Lestrade gave a shaken laugh. “Well. Let’s just say it’s not what I expect of a ten AM meeting with MI6’s _eminence grise_. Or of a….” he frowned, struggling for words. “Not what I expect of someone asking to…” He stopped, looking quizzically at Mycroft, then said, as though inviting correction if necessary, “Asking to court me? That is what you’re asking, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded, suddenly aware he was blushing. “Yes.”

Lestrade closed his eyes. As though broken by complete disbelief, he said, softly, “I don’t think this works the way you think it does, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft huffed. “I didn’t want to seem to offer what I can’t,” he said, sulking. “I’m not in love, and doubt somewhat I ever will be. I’m not sentimental. I’m…”  He gathered himself and tried again, voice leaden. “I’m just me,” he said. “I’ve never been a romantic.”

Lestrade finally opened his eyes and studied him. After a moment he said, “That doesn’t mean this is the way to start, mate.” He gave a very crooked grin. “C’mon, even a hooker likes a bit of court and spark. And it’s not like you don’t have anything to offer, eh? Smart, successful, a loyal son and brother, a loyal patriot. Capable. Orderly. No really bad habits, unlike another Holmes who should go unmentioned. Fit. You can’t really tell me you couldn’t come up with anything more enticing.”

Mycroft turned fully back to the desk, and studied Lestrade. “I had not considered attempting enticement.”

“You don’t say?”

“It seemed premature at best.”

“Let me guess. You’re the kind of fellow who doesn’t put the cheese in the trap till the mouse has already shown up, right? Because why waste good cheese if the mouse isn’t already interested?”

Mycroft considered the evaluation. After a moment he smiled, tightly, and shrugged, hands out in surrender. “Guilty.”

Lestrade shook his head in disbelief, then laughed, ruefully. “I gotta say—you at least know how to stand out. But…” He shook his head again, this time resigned. “No. Just—look, Mike, I’m not saying it’s not tempting. You’ve got a certain appeal, you know? Always have. But you don’t even like me…and I’m not so desperate I’m willing to throw in just to see if you ever do.”

“I like you,” Mycroft objected. “I said I like you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Of course I did,” Mycroft said, trying to recall word for word what they’d said in the past ten minutes, and failing—to his horror. He did not forget details of that much importance that quickly!

“Didn’t,” Lestrade insisted, looking mulish. “If you’d said you liked me, I might feel different.”

“I do like you,” Mycroft snapped. ‘I’ve said so, all right? Do you feel different?”

“I said I might, not I would.”

Mycroft scowled. “You’re as bad as Sherlock.”

“Pot, kettle. Even Sherlock would have known better.”

“Of course he wouldn’t.”

“He managed to convince that Irish girl, Janine.”

“That was different. I assure you, if Sherlock were honestly intending to court someone, he’d be at least as bad as I am. Worse.”

“Yeah, well, whichever of you is worse, you’re both bad at it.”

“I was only trying to respect your dignity, Detective Inspector.”

“Right. Shield your own, more like.”

“And this is so wrong?” Mycroft sniffed. “Under the circumstances it’s as well I preserved my dignity. This would be substantially more painful if I’d made a fool of myself.”

Lestrade just….looked at him.

“What?” Mycroft frowned, then, getting it, said, “I didn’t make a fool of myself. I was quite respectable.”

Aaaaand….brown eyes continued to look, completely disbelieving. “Right.”

Mycroft huffed. “Whatever,” he growled. “In any case. Since my suit is unwelcome, I’ll be on my way.”

“Mmmmph.” The sound was grumpy and at the same time vulnerable—as though this was ending in a way Lestrade wanted no more than Mycroft did.

Mycroft lifted his head, crossed the room, opened the door, and strode out into the cubicled bullpen of the unit. He swept along, the hem of the Crombie almost as dramatic as Sherlock’s Belstaff. He left the bullpen, hurtled to the lift, pushed the call button….

Then thought.

Fortunately for him, Mycroft was among the most intelligent men in the world. And he could think very quickly, when it suited him to do so.

He closed his eyes. He heard the lift arrive with a ping and the swish of doors opening, then leave following the puff of air that told him the doors had once more closed.

He turned around, and swept back along his trail. He swept the door of Lestrade’s office open without knocking.

Lestrade was sitting at his desk still, though he’d dropped his feet back to the floor and no longer sprawled like a cocky, rascally rogue in his chair. Instead he looked tired, and confused, and sad….and unsure of himself.

He looked up at Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled, suddenly sure of himself. “Did you know I’ve got a reputation as a bit too assertive?” he asked mildly.

Lestrade lifted a doubting brow. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

The two stared at each other. Then, with a steady pace, Mycroft stepped behind the desk. He caught Lestrade’s wrists in a firm grip, and tugged him out of his chair. Then, with the same assurance he used to host ambassadors, cabinet members, and errining secret agents, he slid his hands over the points of Lestrade’s shoulders, and drew him close. Closer. Close enough to snog…

Lestrade froze in stunned amazement, as Mycroft drifted his mouth over the other man’s. He caught his breath in a staggering gasp, as Mycroft browsed gently over his lips, then traced the entrance of Lestrade’s mouth with a tender tongue. Then he opened his mouth and let Mycroft in.

Mycroft put his all into it. Granted, he had only so much experience, and no more. His life had demanded other things of him for the most part…but given Lestrade’s reactions, he suspected the kiss was more than good enough for government work. He deepened the kiss, and drew Lestrade closer, until the other man leaned against Mycroft’s chest, arms propped lightly against Mycroft’s ribs.

At last Mycroft drew back, only to lean in and whisper in Lestrade’s ear, “I assure you, Greg—I like you. Enough to hope you let me court you, so I can learn just how much. What about you?”

Lestrade leaned back and studied Mycroft. His eyes, usually peculiarly guileless for a cop, went cool and canny. He considered. But a slow smile was growing, turning up the corners of his mouth, lighting dark eyes. “Better,” he conceded. “I could be…convinced to give it a try.”

Mycroft felt something ease in his chest, and he smiled back. “Good. I…hope I wasn’t too assertive?”

“Eh…on you assertive looks good,” Lestrade said, and dropped a gentle kiss on Mycroft’s nose. “So. We’re an item?”

“Item-ish.”

“I can live with that,” Lestrade said. “And you know what?”

“What?”

“I like you, too.”

Which in Mycroft’s opinion was enough to be getting on with—and then some.


End file.
